by Athanasios
John Haggios saw Rosanna run out of the house for the second time that day. This time, he hoped that she would continue until she could no longer see the house. His heart soared when he saw that she kept running.
Crossing the street, he entered the house and stood over the baby, who looked up and stared. Excitement kept him from instantly reaching down and taking him into his arms. He was looking down at his Savior, his God. The Darkness within the boy recognized a kin.
Haggios was so focused on the boy, and finally being so close, that he didn’t feel the corded forearm wrap about his neck until it was too late. His last conscious sensation was of a hand, closing around his head, then the snap of his neck.
He was raised off of the floor to lessen the struggle. The owner of the corded forearms did not let him fall. He handled him like a sack, tossing him onto a shoulder. He crossed the floor and stepped through the open door. It was as though he had never been there.
When Rosanna returned to the house, she knew that she could not approach Nino by herself. As before, she looked after his needs, but only when Jose was with her. When she was alone, she would place food in front of him and back away. When he first fed himself without instruction, she nearly bolted for the door again. As time went on, she remained as distant as she could. It was rare that she ever came close enough that she could brush him with her hand.
Later in his life, one of the boy’s friends told him a story about a dog that was always chained in a yard. He was only fed from a distance and never felt human contact. He didn’t live long, but his short life was filled with anxiety. If someone came near him, the thought of a touch would make him start barking nervously. In fact, he barked so much that he frightened everyone away.
Nino’s situation was similar — a viciously cyclical pattern. The longer Rosanna stayed away from him, the more agitated he became. He simply couldn’t help it; he craved human contact. She watched him closely for signs of evil, while he watched her closely for signs of contact. His gaze became so intent that she would look away, more fearful than ever. Finally, the craving for affection subsided into a chasm, whose bottom nobody saw.
Rosanna decided that she should tell Jose about the unnaturally quick growth and development. She knew that he had serious fears about his son, and wanted to bring those insecurities to the surface. She was going to save Jose from his damned son.
Finally, he saw the unnatural, instant understanding behind the baby’s eyes and the way he quickly grasped anything that was placed in front of him. Maria would’ve seen it from the beginning, Rosanna told him. Jose should do something about the evil within his son. It was this evil that had killed Maria.
The days turned to weeks and then to months. Slowly, Rosanna pushed the fear to recognition, understanding, and finally, belief. Jose did not need much prompting; he wanted to give in to his fears. Rosanna gladly gave him good reason.
After eight weeks of distancing father from son, Rosanna made her husband agree to come with her and seek spiritual guidance. They left him alone, at less than six months old. They decided that since he was so self-reliant, a few hours by himself was not going to kill him.
When someone simply refuses to do something, rationalization is the best, and most interchangeable, of excuses. Nino’s current parents wanted nothing to do with him, but could not turn him out. Their morals were too ingrained. Whatever else they felt when they were with him, however real it was it could always be pushed aside with the reality that he was still an infant.
What could a baby do? Even one who was cursed? What could a baby do?
- Faith: Father Figure -
They left Nino alone and walked to their salvation. They went to a vehicle that could carry them away: to a church that would only increase the distance from their son. As they entered the front double doors of the church a small, bent man approached them with a cloying smile and took Rosanna’s hand.
“Yes, how may I help you?” The little man seemed to be ready to break under his own weight. His eyes shone with the fanatical zeal that kept him upright. His frailty was not to be believed; he would continue living until he decided to die.
“Are you Padre Pewter?” At once, Rosanna was taken aback by this man’s fervor, yet drawn to it. She hoped to find the same power for herself.
“Oh no, the father of this parish will be here shortly. Until then, can I be of service?” The eyes continued to hold her entranced.
“May we wait for him here and pray, Senor?” Jose asked.
“Yes, yes of course, please come, and be closer to God.” The old man finally glanced away from Rosanna as he answered. He then turned away from the couple and gestured toward the front of the pews. He left the Savourez’s alone and passed a man who was deep in prayer.
The praying man, unnoticed, looked up at the couple. The face was slim and clean-shaven. Patient eyes watched and waited for a proper time. Behind him, the pastor was changing the half-burned candles on the layered candelabras. He looked at the man and continued with his work.
The candelabras were placed on either side of two icons, depicting the final station of the cross and Christ’s subsequent ascension. They did not invite the worshiper to be soothed by their devotion to the subject, but showed a different savior.
The one depicting His crucifixion showed Him, not in meek acceptance of His fate, but in ecstatic, revelation of it. Gazing skyward, His eyes were triumphant at the majesty that would turn Him into the most powerful man to have ever walked the earth. Six Roman soldiers were beneath, one impaling Him with a spear, two others trampling and gambling for His robe, while the remaining three were bullying the Virgin Mary, Joseph and Mary Magdalene. He was shown to welcome the trials, knowing they would bring Him glory beyond compare. It showed Him as a man who went to the most extreme lengths to attain His destiny.
The other depicted Jesus, ascending to heaven, while blinding light enveloped Him. He gazed downward with glee in His eyes, those He had left behind becoming smaller. The light that enveloped Him blinded and impaled the same soldiers who had, before, brutalized Him. His was a vengeful ascension, which struck down those who wronged Him, but also belittled any who knew Him. The ascension was portrayed as a thing to be flaunted over Mary Magdalene, Joseph and the Blessed Virgin, who were shown on their hands and knees in terrified humility.
After they took in the interpretative depictions of these two most pivotal Christian scenes, Jose and Rosanna both sat and began to pray. Jose was slightly unnerved by the ecstatic expression with which Jesus was depicted, but Rosanna found solace and courage in the way their savior was shown vanquishing His tormentors and receiving His fearful adoration. This was the Lord she needed to follow. He was a savior who was decisive, and had the strength to put down any dog that did not cringe away.
They lost themselves in their prayers, while in the background; another clergyman approached the aging Pastor Jorge. The new figure was also dressed in full black robes and, as Jorge pointed to the kneeling couple; he walked over to them while Jorge returned to his work.
He slowed as he neared the praying man; both men exchanged nods and the priest continued towards the couple. He was younger and taller than Pastor Jorge and had thinning hair. The round lenses in his bookish glasses reflected the candlelight. He approached the Savourezes and, sitting beside them, waited until they sensed his presence and were snapped out of their trance.
“I’m sorry to disturb your worship, but Jorge told me you have come to see me?” Father Pewter had just heard about this couple. Jorge said that they were recently married and they had problems with their child.
“Padre Pewter? Oh, thank you for seeing us, Padre! Thank you!” Rosanna could see pious strength in the father’s calm demeanor. She desperately needed it to be there. She saw the same strength that was embodied by the icons, on the face of Jesus and in the hands of the priest.
“Is there something that I can do for you? We are here to help each other.” He had heard that the woman was not the ch
ild’s real mother. The man’s first wife died at childbirth.
“Thank you, Padre, thank you! We need the church.” She wanted to tell him everything and to do whatever he bid her to do. She felt everything was fighting to come out at once. She tried to bite her tongue, to hold it all in, because if she spoke any further, it would come out incomprehensibly. She needed to be able to relate it all perfectly, so that he would know what he needed to do.
He would know what to do. He would know.
“What is it? What is troubling you both?” There was something very important he was forgetting about these two. He had heard some whispers, which most educated men, priest or not, dismissed as superstition. What was it? Witchcraft or some kind of possession?
“Padre, I am Jose Savourez and this is my wife, Rosanna. We have come to you because we are afraid that our son is cursed.” Jose had spoken for the first time. If this priest could convince the rest of the town to start treating them like normal people, then he would do anything.
“He was born to Jose’s first wife, who died during the delivery, Padre. This boy is not natural. Everyone who has seen him says so.” Rosanna wanted to distance herself from the original mother. She did not want to be physically connected to that little spawn of hell.
She only wanted to help, or go through the motions of helping. What would the neighbors think if she did anything less? It was obvious that there was something peculiar about the child. No one but Paula went so far as to say that they should get rid of the little monster. Even they had a remaining measure of civility. It was this civility that Nino remembered most. It kept them from spitting on him; instead, they turned away from him.
It is not easy to be treated with such civility — it is merely the lesser of two evils.
Does it help to know that they could’ve done worse? Is it possible to feel fortunate, if you are shunned, rather than reviled?
“How old is the child?” The story was coming back to him. This was the supposed monster that Paula mentioned. He had not connected what Jorge told him with what Paula was saying to anyone who would listen. It was too easy to dismiss Paula. There were Paulas in every congregation — someone whose shit didn’t stink, as his seminary brother was fond of saying. Of course, her shit didn’t stink because she couldn’t smell it over the stench of everyone else’s. Miss Holier than Practically Everybody, but God and Most Priests.
“He is barely six months, Padre.” Jose began to feel silly. Once he was away from the baby, he had difficulty believing the child both he and Maria waited for, had become what it was. That thought was always in tandem with his good, old Catholic guilt about sex before marriage.
Was God somehow punishing him for it? Some people committed adultery, fornicating with other people’s wives and husbands. There were those who never got married and nothing happened to them. When Joseph Savourez had sex with his betrothed — not some back-alley whore, his betrothed — she died at childbirth, to a freak.
Why had he been so unlucky? Why, why, why? It wasn’t fair.
“And he convinced you, and as you say, everyone who has seen him, that he is cursed? Why? What has he done?” The priest’s voice brought Jose back out of his personal litany of woes.
This seemed to be just as Paula said. That crazy lady convinced even the child’s parents to believe her. Pewter wouldn’t have been surprised if he looked outside and found a pyre, ready for the child.
“It is the way he looks and his quiet, as much as what he has done, Padre.” Rosanna saw that Jose was embarrassed to speak. She saw him look away and hang his head. She would tell the father everything.
“Well what has he done?” Pewter was not sure, but he remembered Paula telling him to be ready with his fire and brimstone when the Savourezes came. His fire and brimstone would take weeks to arrive from Rome. There were special requisitions and form after form, accounting for every flame and bit of charcoal.
“He crawled at one week old and walked at three months, as if he had been doing it for years.” Rosanna was on fire, finally telling this to someone who could do something about it. Her eyes shone with the indignation of having lived with this burden for so long.
She wanted to tell everything, but she also wanted to be understood. She did not wish to be lumped together with Paula. She saw her savior’s eyes become distrustful and wary. She wanted his help, not his skepticism. She needed to be believed, because it was terrifyingly true.
“I’ll agree with you that he is very advanced, and that this has never been heard of before. However, simply because a child is able to do all of this so quickly doesn’t mean he’s cursed.”
He heard a lot of bottled up emotion in Rosanna’s voice. She believed what she was saying with all her heart. Seeing this in a Paula was one thing. Rosanna seemed to be a coherent, practical woman. This was, indeed, strange.
“But, Padre, he is not even six months old and can feed himself!” Rosanna could not believe that the priest was questioning them.
Her heart began to sink. He did not want to help. She saw her chance, slipping away.
“He can? When?” Jose had snapped his head up and stared at Rosanna in disbelief. What else could the little monster do? He clutched at Rosanna’s hands like a lifeline. His child could not be normal. There was nothing normal about an infant, eating as though it were an adult. He wanted to run away from all of this. He wanted to turn and keep on running, but all he did was close his hands around Rosanna’s.
“Oh, Jose, for a month now, I haven’t been able to go near him without you there. He terrifies me!” She saw any chance they had slipping out of their grasp. They held onto each other and listened to whatever help Father Pewter could offer.
“Listen to me, Rosanna. From where I come, although, indeed, this is extremely unusual, it is no reason to believe that he is cursed.” Pewter could not understand how these people could believe, truly believe, this.
They were illiterate, yes, but to believe this of your own son? It rocked him to his foundation. It was a sweet little child, an infant, not even one year old; how was this possible?
“What else can he do by himself?” Jose’s face was turning white. He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his face onto their cradled hands.
“He can put himself to sleep,” she whispered and watched his reaction. It was as though he had been slapped.
“He can crawl up to his crib by himself?” Jose felt sick to his stomach and his mouth hung open. He could not even look at Father Pewter now. His shame was interlocked with his growing, desperate fear.
“Yes, I haven’t put him to sleep for three, four months now.” Rosanna could not understand that the church did not believe them. What did they need — for him to grow horns and a tail?
“Oh, Madre mia! Padre, please help us! Haven’t you been listening?” Jose squeezed the words out through a contorted face. His eyes were squeezed into slits; his mouth was shaped in a grimace, his teeth clenched.
“Easy, Jose, please calm down now. Listen, this is your son. I’m sure this is nothing, please believe me.” The man and the woman were quickly losing their composure. Whatever the truth was about the child, they actually believed what they were telling him.
“Nino is not a normal boy, Padre! He took his own mother’s life when he came into this world!” All was lost; nobody could help them. Finally, Rosanna buried her head in her hands.
“You are both over-reacting now. Listen to me, Jose, Rosanna, you called him Nino. The boy has not yet been baptized?” He had to find a plausible explanation in which they could put their faith.
“No! No, we cannot!” Jose was growing impatient with this priest’s reluctance to believe them. They lived with this damnation. The priest could not see the truth; he did not want to see it.
“Have you considered that, perhaps, all of this is due to the fact that he has not yet been dedicated to God? Don’t you believe that in order to be saved, he must be brought under the church’s wing?” Surely this argument would work, he
thought. They had to be given an avenue that they could follow. During this desperate situation, they had looked to the church for help. The solution had to be in the church’s practices — in its traditions and in its ceremonies. He had to direct their beliefs to the church’s foundations.
“I’m sorry, Padre. We had not thought of that. Thank you for your patience. Thank you. As soon as you are able to take him, we will bring him to you for baptism.” He had provided them with a slim possibility of hope. What if everything was a result of him living outside the state of grace? What if the baptism purged the little boy’s soul?
“I’m glad I could help.” Both Jose and Rosanna, now somewhat more at ease, were hanging on Pewter’s every word.
“When should we bring him for baptism, Padre?” Finally, Jose could hope that he and Rosanna were not alone. Father Pewter found a way. He had not tried to dismiss them, instead, he reasoned through the fear and paranoia, which everyone else had spread. People, who had never even seen the boy, related stories about him belching fire and speaking in tongues. If anything, the child hardly even cried.
Jose hoped that the father could persuade the storytellers to stop. He hoped that, with the priest’s help, they could put all of this behind them. He hoped that all the pointing, the whispering, the cold, frightened stares, would just go away.
“I think that you must consider more than the boy’s baptism. There is also the problem that you believe that he is cursed — your own son.” Now that he gave them some hope, Pewter had to remind them of their true situation. He needed to direct their minds away from what they believed. They had to find a more plausible explanation for their son’s advanced development. He might be a genius. He might be a savant. Father Pewter only knew that he couldn’t be cursed, or possessed.